5. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Darcy stood near the edge of the ballroom, his hands clasped behind his back, doing his best to project the air of someone entirely at ease.
It was not working.
His aunt, Lady Matlock, was speaking to him in that indulgent, affectionate way she reserved for moments when she suspected he was brooding, which was often. “And Georgiana? She will be sixteen soon. Have you made plans for her come out?”
“Her birthday is not until spring, Aunt. At present, I prefer allowing her to remain young.”
“Well, how does she do since you took her from school? I trust her playing has improved. The last time I heard her, she could barely play a scale without tripping over her fingers. And now Richard tells me she’s becoming quite accomplished.”
“She is,” Darcy replied, his tone softening slightly. “She plays with remarkable expression now. Her master in town has been very pleased with her progress.”
“Expression—technique, rather, is one thing,” Reginald, the Viscount Matlock, interjected. “But has she finally overcome her shyness? Or is she still hiding behind the piano whenever she thinks someone is looking at her?”
Darcy allowed himself a faint smile. “She has made strides in that regard, but I doubt she will ever enjoy being the center of attention. Not unlike myself.”
Lady Matlock chuckled, reaching out to pat his arm. “You were a solemn boy, Fitzwilliam, but there is nothing wrong with a little gravitas. Though I must say, your presence here tonight surprises me. It is unlike you to descend on London without warning. This is not an idle visit, is it?”
Darcy hesitated, but the knowing look in his aunt’s eyes made it clear she would accept no evasions. “No,” he admitted. “I had business with my uncle. I did not mean to interrupt your evening or intrude on the party. I had intended to take my leave after speaking with him but thought it would be remiss not to greet you. ”
“And yet here you are,” the Viscount said, his grin broadening. “Standing about with us like a good soldier, rather than fleeing back to your study or your thoughts, as you usually would. What did my father say to keep you here?”
Darcy glanced away. “Nothing of significance. Merely matters of Derbyshire.”
Lady Matlock gave him a shrewd look. “Matters of Derbyshire? Or matters of Stanton?”
“Both,” Darcy said curtly, the clipped edge of his voice signaling the subject was closed.
Before either his aunt or cousin could press him further, the earl emerged from the crowd, walking toward them with a young woman on his arm. Darcy recognized her instantly—the nervous figure from his uncle’s study. Her dark eyes darted about the room, and her gloved hand kept brushing for the edge of her skirt as though it were the only thing anchoring her to the floor. Her gown, though simple, was flattering and suited her well, but she looked completely out of place amidst the glittering guests.
“Ah, there you are,” the earl said, as if they had been waiting for him. “I thought it was time for some introductions.” He turned to Lady Matlock. “My dear, allow me to present Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner and their niece, Miss Elizabeth Bennet.” He gestured to the Gardiners, who stood just behind the young woman, their polite but uneasy expressions mirroring hers. “This is my wife, Lady Matlock, my son Reginald, Viscount Matlock, and my nephew, Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
Elizabeth Bennet curtsied, looking as if the movement might break her in half. Darcy inclined his head automatically, unsure of what to make of her sudden presence. What was his uncle playing at?
The earl gave no indication of noticing anyone else’s unease. Instead, he clapped a hand on Darcy’s shoulder. “Fitzwilliam, you will ask Miss Bennet to dance.”
Darcy blinked, certain he had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“A dance, man. Surely you do not require me to define the word.”
“No, but… there is no music.”
“There will be in five minutes, and I expect you to do your part. Ah—there it is.” He held up his finger at the sound of the orchestra striking the first notes. The discordant strains, a siren call to matrimonial-minded ladies and gentlemen alike, turned dozens of heads instantly toward the dance floor.
Miss Bennet’s rather… astonishing eyes had somehow grown rounder, her expression one of utter confusion mingled with dismay. Darcy felt his own jaw tighten. This was en tirely out of line, and yet the earl looked as though he had merely asked him to pass the salt.
“Uncle,” Darcy began carefully, “I am not unwilling to oblige you, but I had intended to leave for the evening. We spoke at length earlier, and I have much to consider. Perhaps—”
“Nonsense,” the earl interrupted. “There is no better time than the present for such matters. Are you telling me you lack the stamina for a simple turn about the room?”
Darcy felt heat creep up his neck. “My stamina is quite sufficient, I assure you, but—”
“Then you understand me. Unless, of course, there is something the matter with your hearing.”
Darcy straightened, his teeth grinding until he feared they might turn to powder. “My hearing is perfect, Uncle. My understanding, however, is somewhat lacking.”
“Allow me to clarify. Miss Bennet is your partner for this dance. Now, go.”
Darcy hesitated, his gaze flicking to Miss Bennet, who looked as though she might sink through the floor. Her expression mirrored his own confusion and reluctance, and for a moment, he wondered if she might refuse outright. But then her eyes met his, and in them, he saw something unexpected—a flash of defiance, tempered by embarrassment.
Clearing his throat, Darcy took a step forward and offered his hand. “Miss Bennet, may I have the honor of this dance?”
Her hand trembled slightly as she placed it in his, but her voice, when it came, was steady. “You may.”
Darcy inclined his head, turning toward the floor as the music swelled. Behind him, he caught a glimpse of the earl’s satisfied expression, but he had no time to dwell on it. Miss Bennet was beside him, and the eyes of the entire room seemed to follow their every step.
Elizabeth placed her gloved hand in Mr. Darcy’s, his grip firm but cool, and allowed herself to be led toward the center of the ballroom. Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that she could scarcely hear the music over it. None of this made any sense. Just moments ago, she had been answering the earl’s clipped, probing questions about her father, her family, and her connections—or lack thereof. She had thought he was on the verge of dismissing her entirely—or calling for some uniformed official to drag her away—when he abruptly offered his arm and escorted her back to the party.
And now this.
The tall, forbidding figure before her—Mr. Darcy—looked no more pleased with the situation than she felt. His expression was composed but distinctly unhappy, his jaw tight as he moved with the crispness of a man performing a duty he would rather avoid. Elizabeth had barely recovered from the shock of being introduced to him when she was deposited into his care for a dance.
A dance , of all things! How could this possibly help restore the earl’s trust in her or repair her uncle’s reputation?
She glanced around the room as they took their places. It was a small dance, appropriate for a private gathering, and only a few couples joined them. But her surroundings hardly comforted her. She could feel the eyes of half the room fixed on her—guests watching with veiled curiosity or open scrutiny, fans fluttering as whispers spread among the ladies nearest the walls. Her stomach twisted as she caught a glimpse of the French minister among them, his sharp gaze flicking toward her before shifting away.
Even worse, Mr. Darcy had clearly noticed the attention, too. His lips were now a rigid line that might as well have been sculpted from wood, his face tilted slightly away from the room as if trying to ignore the scrutiny entirely.
The music began, and they moved. For the first few moments, Elizabeth focused on her steps, grateful for the distraction of the patterned movements. Mr. Darcy danced well, his tall frame moving with the grace of the consummate gentleman. But his silence was oppressive. He spoke not a word, his gaze fixed somewhere above her shoulder, leaving her to feel like an unwelcome obligation.
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. “Do you dislike dancing, Mr. Darcy?” she asked, keeping her tone as light as possible, though her nerves made her voice waver slightly.
His dark eyes flicked to her briefly. “No.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “I see. Then do you dislike conversation?”
This time, his gaze flicked to her ever so slightly before his eyes settled back into the distance. “No.”
Elizabeth felt a flicker of triumph despite herself. At least she had drawn a reaction. “You are a man of few words, sir.”
“I prefer economy,” he replied, his tone clipped but not unkind .
“Economy?” she echoed, her eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “How curious. I find that words, like steps, are meant to fill the space.”
“Do you?” His tone betrayed no opinion on the matter.
“I do,” she said firmly. “Though, I suspect you disagree.”
He glanced at her again, his gaze briefly catching hers before he turned back to the room. “Not entirely.”
Elizabeth tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “Then what do you prefer, Mr. Darcy? In company, that is. If not dancing and not conversation?”
“I prefer purpose,” he said simply.
Elizabeth had lost herself for an instant in studying his face, and now she nearly stumbled. She caught herself, her cheeks burning as she felt his steadying hand hover near her arm without touching it. “Purpose?” she repeated, recovering her steps. “And what purpose do you find in this dance?”
He hesitated, his gaze darkening slightly. “I do not know yet.”
The answer unsettled her more than his silence had, and for a moment, she had no reply. If he had no guesses, either, then what was the earl thinking? She focused on the music, on the movement of the dance, as her mind churned with questions. What purpose could the Earl of Matlock have in forcing them together like this? Why had Mr. Darcy agreed to it, however reluctantly? And why did she feel as though the entire room were holding its breath, waiting for something to happen?
She became acutely aware of the ladies along the edges of the ballroom. Fans fluttered and whispers darted. Murmurs rose and more than one figure had moved strategically for a better view. Elizabeth’s heart was in her throat, and she felt queasy. She had no illusions about how she must appear to them—a country nobody, plucked from obscurity and thrust into their glittering world with no explanation.
“Do they always stare like that?” she asked before she could stop herself, her voice lowering slightly.
Darcy’s eyes flicked toward the group she meant, his jaw tightening visibly. “Sometimes.”
“And do you always pretend not to notice?”
“Usually.”
Elizabeth almost laughed at the dryness of his tone. “I must admit, Mr. Darcy, I find that rather admirable. ”
“Admirable?” He arched an eyebrow. “I should think indifference would be a more appropriate word.”
“Perhaps,” she said lightly. “But indifference is no small feat when one is being dissected by a roomful of strangers.”
Darcy did not reply immediately, and Elizabeth felt the conversation slipping away again. She opened her mouth to speak, but the music swelled, signaling the end of the dance. Darcy stepped back, bowing with impeccable grace, and Elizabeth curtsied in turn, her cheeks still warm.
“Thank you, Miss Bennet.”
“And I suppose I must thank you, as well, Mr. Darcy,” she replied, her voice soft with confusion.
His brow furrowed slightly. “That is a curious way of phrasing it.”
“Because I still do not know whether I have been accorded some honor or merely put on display for the earl’s purposes… whatever they may be. But you performed your part valiantly, sir.”
He grunted and offered his arm, but no more flickers of expression crossed his face. She took it reluctantly, allowing him to guide her back toward her aunt and uncle.
As they approached, his uncle, the earl, intercepted them. Elizabeth could not hear what was said, but the earl leaned close, murmuring something into Mr. Darcy’s ear. Whatever it was made Darcy glance at her briefly, his features darkening. Then he bowed again, excused himself, and strode from the room without another word.
Elizabeth watched him go, her thoughts a tangle of confusion and unease. Her aunt’s hand on her arm drew her back, and she forced a small, polite smile as they approached the earl. For all her bewilderment and discomfort, she had to make herself agreeable—for her uncle’s sake, if nothing else.
The earl regarded her and the Gardiners in silence for a long moment, his sharp eyes sweeping over Elizabeth as though assessing something she could not comprehend. At last, he spoke.
“Come to my study tomorrow at two o’clock,” he said, his tone brisk. “All three of you. We will speak further then.”
Elizabeth curtsied numbly, murmuring her thanks as relief washed over her. The earl’s dismissal was clear, and she had no desire to linger. She and her aunt and uncle made their way toward the door, their footsteps quick but quiet, as though they feared attracting any more attention than they already had .
As the heavy front doors of the townhouse closed behind them, Elizabeth exhaled deeply, her shoulders sagging. Whatever the earl wanted of her tomorrow, she could only hope it would make sense. But for now, all she wanted was to return to her uncle’s house and leave this impossible evening behind her.